My lips trip at the edge of your hip
Its bone smooth like stone
Solid like rock
A cool ledge to stop and rest before stepping down to
A crevice of promise.

Moist moss, ferns unfurling
Whispering waters, a river going out to sea
On its sandy edge, a coracle to ride in, you and me
Up the curving crash of wave and sliding down the other side
Safe in its hold till we reach land.

Now this is a religion I can understand.

Elisabeth Winkler

The Catholic church bases its authority on St. Peter’s words,
“Upon this rock I build my church.”